Angelina Bonaparte Mysteries Box Set by Nanci Rathbun (reading books for 4 year olds txt) 📕

I decided to take care of some routine chores, and headed for the grocery store. My cupboard and fridge had been bare long enough. I stocked up on pantry and frozen foods, and enough fruits and veggies to last the week. A package of FCBs (flattened chicken breasts, suitable for many a singleton’s meal when garnished with different sauces), two sirloin beef patties, a nice Riesling. A tiny box containing four Godiva chocolates. I would eat one a night until they were gone. There’s no point in wasting calories on cheap chocolate, always opt for the darkest and richest.

At my front door, I juggled the two bags of groceries and my purse as I tried to fit the keys into the lock. The door opened before I could complete the maneuver. Lela stood in the doorway, hands on hips. “Girl, it’s about time you got some food in this house. If there was another empty pizza box in the garbage, I planned to call Nutrition 9-1-1.” She took one of the bags and preceded me into the kitchen.

Lela (not Lila, and don’t forget it!) is a six-foot, 30-something, beautiful black actress who works sporadically at her craft and weekly for me. Don’t ever call her a cleaning lady, she’ll eat you alive. ‘Cleaner’ or ‘cleaning person’ are fine with her, but ‘cleaning lady’ sets her off. She tidies up, vacuums, mops, wipes down, runs the dishwasher, changes the sheets, does the laundry and generally makes it possible for me to live without personal chaos. I just call her my angel.

“How’s life treating you?” I asked as we put the groceries away.

“So-so. Had an audition for the Rep. Waiting to hear. Want any of this meat to stay out for tonight?”

“No. I’m going to the MDA benefit at the Italian Community Center. There’s a meal.”

“Who you going with?” She stopped packaging meat for the freezer and waited for my answer.

“Kevin.” I didn’t look at her, just kept shoving cans in the pantry.

“Young studly Kevin? You go, girl.”

“Yeah, well, you know how my dad dotes on Joseph next door. Thinks he’s the bravest little boy in the world?” She nodded. “Papa bought tickets for the benefit, for the whole family. A table. Him, Aunt Terry, my son David and his wife Elaine, my daughter Emma and her husband John, and me and Kevin.” I grimaced.

“So, you’re worrying about what? That Kevin won’t know which fork to use? That he’ll disgrace you in front of your family?”

“No. I’m not worried about Kevin. I’m worried that I’m going to look like a middle-aged woman with a much younger man. That people will wonder why we’re together, what he sees in me.”

Lela stepped back, put her right hand against her cheek and looked me up and down, slowly. “What does he see in you? Hmmm.” She tapped her index finger against her cheek. “Maybe he sees a woman who’s got it together. A looker. With a good heart. A woman who’s always trying to help someone else. Who’s funny and smart. A woman that any man over the age of thirty with an IQ of more than ninety would be proud to be seen with.”

I hugged her, not caring that my face was at her bosom level. “Could you record that for me, so I can play it back at regular intervals?”

“So, let’s put the rest of this food away and then you show me what you’re wearing,” she said.

My dress was a killer, if I do say so myself—a long, red, beaded, backless, halter number. The strappy red stilettos and small beaded red bag would blend into the background, focusing all attention on the dress. I planned to keep the jewelry simple—diamond studs in my earlobes and a beautiful platinum-and-diamond watch that Papa gave me when Emma was born.

“Mmm, mmm, mmm,” Lela slowly shook her head. “You will knock them dead. I mean stone cold dead, girl. You planning to bring ole Kevin back here for a nightcap?”

“We’ll see.”

“That man deserves a medal if he’s with you in that dress, all night, and then he don’t even get a little.” Lela always slipped into jive when she lectured me, which she did at regular intervals. “My Sam call that a blue ball night.”

I laughed and shook my head. “Maybe Sam’s just giving you a sob story so you’ll put out.”

“Sam don’t need no sob story for me to put out, honey.” She laughed a wicked laugh and waved as she left the bedroom. “I already put clean sheets on the bed!”

The front door slammed and I was once again alone with my thoughts. It was four-thirty. The house was clean, the laundry was done, the bills were paid and the office duties were current. There was no way I was going to concentrate on the Grafton novel, so I watched one of those home decorating shows on HGTV for a little mindless entertainment. Am I the only one who thinks that Moroccan harem is not a good look for a dining room?

At five o’clock, I broke down and turned on the shower. While I waited for the steam to rise, I plucked my eyebrows and made sure that none of those nasty post-thirty chin hairs were poking out. Then I cleaned my face with oil and rinsed it off in the shower. Shampooed my hair and applied conditioner. Applied more conditioner to underarms and legs, and shaved. Exfoliated elbows and feet. Washed with my favorite ginger-and-green-tea body wash, then rinsed off from top to bottom and followed with a cold spray. Brrrr. Toweled off, swabbed ears. Slathered on face cream and body lotion. Rubbed paste into my hair and combed it into place. Slipped into a robe and slippers and padded into the kitchen for a cuppa. The microwave clock read 5:45.

At six, I sat down to watch the local news. Just as I suspected, they showed my back entering the Belloni residence the night before.